


Of the Sunrise

by noclouds



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Angst, Borodinskaya bitva | Battle of Borodino, But I swear it's blissful, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Character Death, F/M, Graphic Description, I'm so sorry, Implied Sexual Content, It's all angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-11 19:14:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11720748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noclouds/pseuds/noclouds
Summary: "Anatole" derived from ανατολη meaning "sunrise". His life rises and falls like the sun, blindly.





	Of the Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> While this is mainly based on the musical but I took inspiration from the book. I'm only on page 30 of War and Peace so most of this is formulated from my own ideas about these character's backstories. Yes, Ippolit makes an appearance- as does Anatole's wife, despite neither being in the musical. I had to add them-- they both deserve that much. (Also, there's spoilers for the Battle of Borodino because I do know what happens there, kinda. Think of it as TGC!universe.) 
> 
> The lowercase typing is a stylized choice. I'm sorry if it bothers you, but it helps set the tone of the story. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

he is his mother’s favorite, blonde hair that matched her smile and blue eyes that matched her attitude-- calm, coming and going like the tide, or perhaps like the sky. it’s gradient of blue that arched up towards the atmosphere, dark to light resting upon his head like a halo. she cradles his cheek, pressing a kiss to his forehead and whispered. a voice so soft and silent amongst the rest. she was told to be quiet, too dumb to spark a conversation with princes and kind. yet all forgot that she herself held such noble status. 

“my son,” she would tell him, watching his eyes light up and a young hand reaches for her arm, “you are as bright as the morning and as beautiful as the sky.” 

he is his mother’s favorite, the youngest, the most uninhibited. the other boy watches from afar, crooked nose like the reins of a horse he would never free and busted jaw, he scowls and could never understand why their simple mother would set her eyes anywhere other than him.

she, the celestial torch in both beauty and personality, pulls the eldest away. with mother sick, they were each allowed a moment, as it would be their last. she would not make it through the night. the youngest brother deserved time just as they all did. 

tears ran down his soft cheeks, hot streaks of salt left behind from the ocean. its forgotten waste of the past and everything that they came from. he never saw the ocean, but with the passion his mother spoke of such a place, it must’ve been the water that drew him to the fantasy. he couldn’t stop his crying, fingers tightening around her wrist, pulling it to his lips. he presses a small kiss to her cold skin. he is ten, doesn’t understand death, doesn’t understand lost, doesn’t understand the idea that something could seemingly stop existing. he was never deprived of anything prior. 

“mama,” his voice as weak as she was, unable to find the strength his father urged him to have. it was better off to have another girl, father would say. he hated that. “mama, please…”

“you are so handsome. just as booming and awe-inspiring as the sunrise. I know for a fact when you are older, your wife will be so lucky to have a man such as you, my son.” 

he couldn’t stop the tears that ran from his shut eyes, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair. he didn’t deserve this, he didn’t want this. he cried, her hand dropping from his cheek, eyes glazed over with clouds. the sun had disappeared from her eyes. 

father had to pull him away from her body. 

~~~

he is twenty, strutting around the soiree like a peacock. his hair well groomed and showing up in a brand-new white jacket, embezzled with black stitching. he’s well aware of all the eyes on him, and breathes in the musky crowded air. He flashes a grin, blinding and a young girl shields her eyes. his sister tugs at his arm. 

“don’t tease her like that. you’re too breathtaking for a young mouse like girl as her,” and she disappears into the crowd, dress swirling around her. his sister is alive in scenes such as this one, and he has yet to master the act as she has. he could take notes but this talent would have to stem from him, first handedly. breathtaking, she said. he grins again, a glass of wine in one hand and made his way to the shy mouse of the evening. this would hardly be a challenge, predator to prey, she was just a mouse that was bound to enter his trap.

they always did fall, just like the sun rises and falls with each day. beautiful things never last long, and are meant to be seen only in those short moments. 

he smiles at her, presses a kiss to the base of her wrist. she’s dull where he is sharp, and boring certainly, but entertaining enough for one evening. they chat for the rest of the night, or really, lets her talk and he absently agrees. he gets her drunk, feeding her gulps of wine from his glass until she can’t stand. she stares up at him, her grey eyes dark, like a storm. this is the only part he can see himself attached to, her passion, her mystery but still, mice are boring. 

“prince, could you help me to my room? i don’t think i can make it on my own.”

who is he to say no to such a request. he leaves the room, well aware that every step he takes more eyes glare into his back. as he leaves, so does any light. whether it be jealousy or envy, he knows that he’s on their minds. and he can only assume what they see upon a drunken girl clinging to his arm. let them assume, there’s fun in rumors. 

she’s too boring, even in bed. they’re both drunk, she more so then him. yet she rolls against his body and murmurs against his lips. she’s otherwise quiet and that takes the fun out of any games he’d wish to play. importantly, she seems satisfied and dozes off soon after. he lays next to her, chest rising and falling to each one of her soft breaths. dull, like old farm tools, dusty like the country. what a distasteful life she must live. 

when he helps her to a carriage in the morning, he realizes he never got her name. he supposes it never mattered. another girl, same bed, boring sex. 

later in the year he receives a letter at noon, when the sun is at its highest peak. a letter from poland, addressed to him and his family. his sister doubles over in laughter as she reads it from over his shoulder. his brother grins, finally happy that something would make his knees buckle in embarrassment. and his father, ashamed and broken. he stares at his youngest son with such fury yet says nothing, takes the letter and leaves the make arrangements. 

the married life, he decides, would never be for him. not to farm mice. not to a woman carrying a child he had no intent in having. he wonders what his mother would say, and recognizes that he cannot remember her face. 

he still doesn’t know the landowner’s daughter’s name. the sunrise seems a bit weaker the next morning. 

~~~ 

marriage seems beautiful when natasha rostova says it. everything seems beautiful when natasha rostova says it. everything about natasha rostova is beautiful. he sighs, watching the sunrise from his window in his study. his most trustworthy friend rises from the couch beside him, clips on his suspenders and makes his way to the desk. his friend, most unholy and violent yet god’s gift to society in the same regard, repeats the plans of how the rest of the day would play out, and his soft lips form into a frown when the prince finds himself on another tyrant about her dark electrifying skin, beautiful curves so innocent, such small dainty feet. 

“oh you haven’t seen the look in her eyes, so wide and wondering--” his dreamlike state is interrupted, the sun is covered by a snow cloud. ice covers the streets and the sun begins to burn cold. a coiled spring, wound and ready, his friend slams his hands on the desk and growls, turning to his head to scowl at the blonde. 

“this isn’t what she deserves, you fool! she’s a young girl and you’re taking advantage of her. why can’t you see that this will only bring you trouble. the rostov’s will never let their heiress disappear like some gypsy whore--” 

“nonsense! have faith in me, my friend. this will all go fine. i’m in love, are you not happy for me?”

“you don’t know what love is.” 

and turns on his heel and exits the study, anger fuming under his skin and picking at his shirt. a pang shoots through the prince’s heart, uncertainty spraining any of his limbs from moving. why is he frozen and alone. he looks out the window, watching his friend go. he knows he will return, as he always does. places a cold hand over his heart and feels it beat, soft. this is what he wants and yet… he gazes up at the sun and cannot see it. 

when the abduction fails, he runs, absently, blindly. there is no sun to guide him, no streetlamp to beacon him to safety. he finds himself crying in his sister’s lap and wonders if this was what his mother meant. this is not a booming sunrise, this is not awe-inspiring but a pathetic excuse for a man. he’s just a boy, has always been a boy. even the light that his sister brings seems dim, they are terrified.  
the morning in moscow never comes. the sun, frozen over for the families entwined with scandal. 

~~~

he arrives back in petersburg with the dull sunrise to greet him. and does not say hello. 

~~~

the sun is not welcome here. and he believes neither is he. sitting, head bowed, he glances at his mother’s name, graved in stone. his tears feel like blood against his skin and the thick smell clouds every one of his senses. he can’t think beyond beg for answers, silent. no one dares disturb the dead, except for him. and cannot still wrap his head around why. his mother does not answer his sobs, does not rest a hand on his cheek and press cold lips into his hair. bones lay draped in cloth and he does not disturb them. 

icarus, a man made of wax whom loved too much for the sun and fell. yet the story seems reversed when he imagines sitting by the fire, siblings on either side as their mother reads. a fabricated memory. the sun, too dull witted, spoiled and stupid, falls out of the sky by its eastern rise. too used to the stars upon getting all of its shiny wishes. yet falls for something he never should have touched in the first place. and did not listen because he was growing cold and she was the warmth he desired. 

there is no warmth here. 

when he exits, ties the chain back in its place, the moon scowls at him. he keeps his head bowed and walks back to a place he’s long since called home. not even the servants greet him.

no one greets the dead. 

~~~

on this field, he is forced to watch the sunrise. he cannot feel anything anymore. his leg, bone bent and bleeding, lays beside him at an unholy angle. the blood that pours from his wounds feels heavy, draping him in a blanket, cushioning his broken body from the charred grass. he is cold, and shut out the screaming and the gunshots. he was never made for war. but blood is warm and he has not been warm in such a long time. 

has not watched the sunrise in such a long time. not since moscow, when he laid on a couch beside the one last good thing in his life and poured his heart out into him-- unbeknownst to both men, in fevered touches. he believes he hasn’t been warm since then either. 

his blue eyes, drifting far like the lonely waves of a low tide, can do nothing but gaze up. his blonde hair, once golden with the light of his grin, perfumed with respect and appeal, now caked with mud. every part of him is ruined. he deserves this, for all the wrongs he’s done. no one will weep, and he knows that’s okay. he himself will weep. and maybe his mother will offer him a smile on the other side. he thinks she can still love him. he thinks he cannot love at all. 

the sky is beautiful, but not like him. the sun is bright, but not like him. and no wife is lucky to have him. he whines, a sorrowful sound because he cannot remember his wife’s name. or if she is alive, or if his son-- or was it a daughter-- is even still alive. does not know how they are, or where they are. 

where is anyone

he thinks to his friend-- god’s violent gift. he knows he must still be alive, amidst this smoke, he is out there, gun held high and grinning wildly. he was made for this, for the adrenaline and the pain. he misses him, and wonders if the same can be said for both sides. wonders when, and if they will ever see each other again. his leg screams at him-- no.

he thinks of his sister-- the moon’s most beautiful torch, even the night sky which envies her. she is safe, alone but untouched by these canons. he mourns for her, wishes to see her one last time, press a soft kiss against her cheek. one of the few which has stayed by his side, his whole life. she’s having a child and he mourns that he will never be an uncle to a child he would’ve loved dearly. in his mind, he knows she is as reckless as he, and hopes that nothing of harm will ever come to her. she does not deserve pain. 

he thinks of his brother-- unknown and lost in the taste of a companion’s freedom. they were never close but wonders what uncomical idiocy he is up too. wonders if his pity matches the other’s guilt. everything he succeeded in, his brother lost too. congratulations, he thinks, calling out a prayer to wherever he may be, you beat me in this time. 

a body drops next to him, and slowly looks over to see. another fallen soldier would mean nothing to him but upon seeing the man whose marriage he ruined, he shrinks into himself and looks away. he thinks the man must be happy for his suffering. and is wrong. 

more tears fall from his eyes, wiping trails of dust from his skin. 

he thinks of the girl-- natasha, this man’s love and his spoiled little christmas present in a winter that never should have been. he sees her face, and only allows himself that glance of youth. he does not deserve to think about her. 

the man’s eyes burn into him. he does not meet look back but can hear his soft, 

“i forgive you, kuragin.” 

and he sobs, letting out a scream as he tries to reach back up for any sort of fight he has left in him. he twists his leg, and pain flares up his thigh and his body, blood burning everything it touches. everything he ever touched burns too, memories hidden in each curve and dip of his body. it's hard to think any more but time, so slow, and so agonizing, wishes him to suffer. 

canons erupt in a symphony and he can no longer feel the presence of that man next to him, wonders if he, as a captain, was pulled away from danger. he is not captain, is the least priority. that’s okay. the man deserves a fighting chance after the life he has only heard about in passing. he has a son that he loves, himself does not. love, he thinks, the only power that could save his soul from anything and he spat in the face of it. his whole life. 

he thinks of his mother, one last time-- the nobility in her presence and her favoring of his light that he gave every time he entered a room. his girlish looks and talent as he played the violin for her. he hears the strings, off tune, and sharp. and so, so far away. 

he thinks of the sunrise-- his name, his meaning, the influence in every bounce of his step. he opens his eyes, unaware when he had closed them, knows this is the last time he will be able to keep them open. the blue drains from his irises and flees to the shining sky, the sun rises. a orchestra of colors all in tune as the strings continue to play on, finding their own beauty in an off-key battle for hope. soft yellows melt into his heart, rays of sun calm him of the burning blood but ease his bones into tenderness. he has not watched the sun rise to its crescendo in the sky for a very long time. feels it finally call to him. the light is bright, he manages a smile. 

“anatole,” a voice begins to say. but he cannot hear the rest. the orchestra, the violins, have begun to play the last note in their symphony of colors, for the sky, and for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Name Meanings:  
> Anatole - Sunrise  
> Aline - Noble  
> Ippolit - Freer of Horses  
> Helene - Celestial OR Torch  
> Fyodor (Theodore) - God's Gift  
> Andrey - Man  
> Natasha - Christmas Day 
> 
> I hid a lot of little hints about things through this story so please let me know if you caught them and if you have any questions! Any comments and kudos are greatly appreciated; I'd love know what you think! Thank you for reading. 
> 
> Tumblr - pequenoleon


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